


The Tuesday Letters

by spikesgirl58



Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-21
Updated: 2012-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 18:41:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya's gone and all Napoleon has is a pile of letters and more questions than answers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tuesday Letters

UNCLE looked for two months and Napoleon looked for another one after that.  He looked until his time, money and Waverly’s patience ran out.

During the day, Napoleon moved through the familiar corridors like a sleepwalker, functioning more out of habit than desire.  Waverly saw to it that he stayed put, sending other agents, agents with partners, out on assignment.

At night, he stared up at the ceiling, willing the shadows to coalesce into an answer to his prayers.  Sometimes, he’d even go so far as to take out a communicator and open a channel, praying a familiar voice would respond.  He’d sleep then without realizing it, waking to another gray, hollow day.

And now this.  He sat and stared at Illya’s desk, just as he had for many other days.  Staring, and for an instant, Illya would be there, complaining about Napoleon’s handwriting, running a hand through his overly blond hair, or sending a flash of a smile in Napoleon’s direction.  Then he was gone.

Napoleon looked at the cardboard box in his hands and wondered if there would even be enough personal effects in the desk to make using the box worthwhile.  Illya was not one for collecting odds and ends.

The top drawers proved this.  They held UNCLE issued office supplies, some hard candy, receipts, and scraps of paper with nameless phone numbers on them.  Perhaps once a bit more time passed, Napoleon would call them, but not today.

It wasn’t until he was cleaning out the large bottom drawer that he found something definitely not standard UNCLE issue.   It was a box and Napoleon pulled it out and opened it.  It was filled with envelopes, all rubber-banded together and each one carefully numbered.  

“How odd,” he said aloud.  Then he realized he was alone and sighed.  Carefully, he put the letters and the other few items he’d found into the cardboard box and tucked it safely under his desk.  This afternoon, a new man would be sitting at that desk and he didn’t intend to be here for it.

 

                                                                                ****

Napoleon poured himself two fingers of scotch and took the glass back to the fireplace.  It was going to be a long cold winter according to the forecasters, but winter had already settled into Napoleon’s heart and soul months earlier.

He’d known Illya was a good partner and a good friend.   He’d known death was part of their ever day world.  He just never thought that Illya being gone would hit him quite this hard.  Napoleon knew Waverly was worried and about ready to pull him from active duty.  The worst part was Napoleon didn’t really much care at this point.

Napoleon sighed and reached for a stack of envelopes, thumbing through them until he reached the one mark with a 1 in Illya precise handwriting.  He opened the unseal envelope and pulled out a piece of stationary.

It was dated the day Napoleon had picked Illya up from the New York airport.  He smiled at the thought of the rail thin young man in a worn raincoat and carrying a single cardboard suitcase.  So much had happened since then.

_I have always maintained that nothing good happens on a Tuesday.  It is as if all of the world’s burdens are held only to be piled upon our unwilling shoulder each Tuesday morning.  Every earth-shattering event in my life has happened on a Tuesday, so you will excuse me if I harbor ill will toward the day._

_However, for the first time, something good has happened on a Tuesday.  Today I began my new life in America.  I had been researching the country ever since Waverly sent me that first communiqué.  It is hard for me to comprehend such a place and yet here I am._

_Even more, today I met the man who is to be my partner.  When I was told his name, I will confess I laughed.  Trying to imagine what a Napoleon Solo would look like amused me for most of the long, mind-numbing plane trip._

_He was nothing as I imagined.  He looks normal, not too tall and certainly not short.  He is nondescript, a useful thing in our line of work.  His smile is fast and appears genuine, but I will have to wait to appraise its sincerity.  For now, I am content and at peace… and in America._

Napoleon carefully refolded the paper and returned it to its envelope.  He reached for the next one.

It was about training and learning the daily routine.  Again there was a reference to Napoleon and how much Illya appreciated his help.  He still wasn’t willing to call Napoleon friend, though.

An hour later, his Scotch all but forgotten, Napoleon continued to read.  Every letter was written on a Tuesday, although there were gaps, missions he decided or something that kept Illya from writing.

_This past Tuesday held true to its nature.  We were on a mission and things went very bad.  Up until now, everything was going pretty well.  That was until Napoleon was shot.  Took one in the shoulder and I watched him collapse and felt his blood trickled through my fingers.  The damned mission had to take precedence, but I made sure he was safe before leaving his side._

_Later, after some marked success, I was able to visit him at the hospital and convince the doctor to release him to my care.  My care, he no more needed me than I needed a KGB tail, yet he tolerated my presence.  In fact, I think he was almost glad for it.  To be honest, I am not sure that he has had a partner before like me, but I was raised to believe we have an obligation to protect and take care of our friends._

“Ha, he finally admits it!” Napoleon said triumphantly and toasted the ceiling.  “To friendship!”

He reached the letter that numbered 83 to find the tone changed.  They were less about missions and more about what they did together.  Illya still documented their latest disastrous mission or a failed date, but also the color of Napoleon’s tie and how it complimented him.   Or how well tailored a particular suit was.

Then…

_May all the gods who look after foolish enforcement agents shelter me from my own foolhardiness; for I find that I have quite fallen in love with my partner.  I supposed I’ve known for quite a long time now.  Napoleon is a man’s man.  There isn’t a woman who can walk by him and not smiled appreciatively at him.  He is kind and generous.  He treats people well, especially women people.  I watch him flirt, pursue, and engage them and feeling such betrayal.  He will never look at me that way.  Giving me such a decidedly heterosexual and dedicated skirt chaser for a partner must surely be the biggest joke of them all.  Even now I can hear the gods laughing at the expense of their good friend, Illya Nickovetch._

Napoleon let the paper fall to his lap.  The letter was dated just a few months before Illya’s disappearance and presumed death.  Napoleon had felt something had changed in their relationship.  Illya had always been willing to follow his lead before, but now it was as if he was acquiescing more and more.  Whatever Napoleon suggested was fine with Illya, whether it was a night on the town with a couple of charming young ladies or a night in eating takeout and playing chess.  

“How could I have been so blind?” Napoleon muttered, looking at the letters.  He didn’t have to heart to read any more because he knew what they would say.  All this time and Illya didn’t have a clue.  He never knew Napoleon chewed through women the way he did because the one person he wanted he couldn’t have.  “Guess you weren’t the only one they were playing a trick on, old friend.”

Napoleon gathered the letters back up, carefully, almost reverently placing them in order, then he saw the last one… 

_I can’t believe I have finally lived through this last bout of desk work and can once again begin life as real enforcement agent again.  Being stuck behind a desk is the last place I even want to be.  If I am so desperately injured in the line of duty, I hope I die rather than live as I have the past few weeks.  I would be of no good to anyone, especially Napoleon.  Even though I am far from completely healed, I have been able to convince them that I am ready for the field again._

_There’s a sense of fall in the air and soon New York will open its arms to winter.  I miss winters in the Soviet Union, but Manhattan in December is very lovely.  I look forward to it and possibly this year, I will get Napoleon out on the ice in front of Rockefeller Plaza.  He’s all arms and legs and I have to hold him up to keep him from falling.  I wonder what he would say if he knew those were the moments when I feel the most alive._

_He’s shouting for me now, so I will finish this.  Who knows what adventure awaits us?  Something wonderful, I hope._

Napoleon crumpled the letter in his hand and his shoulders started to shake.  He knew Illya wasn’t ready.  He’d felt it in his heart of hearts, but he was so anxious to get back out there and it was always better with Illya by his side.

What a selfish bastard he’d been!  He started to pace the room, then jumped as the phone rang.  It was odd… no one ever called him.

“Hello?”

“Napoleon?”

Napoleon dropped the receiver, his mouth and mind working is decidedly different directions.

“Napoleon?”

“Illya?”

“Yeah… barely.”

“Where are you?”

“Clinic in Munich.  Just woke up from a coma and it took me a while to remember stuff.”

“Oh, God, Illya…”

“Sorry, I didn’t have any ID on me when they brought me in.  Could you let Waverly know?”

“Yes, I… yes, I will.  Where exactly are you?  I’ll come and get you.”

“I’m in Switzerland, Napoleon, not across the street. “

“I’m coming to get you!  End of sentence.” 

“Okay, okay, don’t get all hot over the collar about it.”

“It’s under the collar, Illya.”  He paused and took a breath.  “Illya?”

“Yes, Napoleon?”

“I love you.”  There was silence on the line and for a moment Napoleon wondered if he dreamt the whole conversation.  “Did you hear me?”

“Yes.”  It was so soft that Napoleon almost missed it.  “You, as well.”

“I know.”  It amused him that Illya has trouble with the phrase, but what the hell?  He’d have years to get used to saying it because Napoleon was going to make very sure Illya Nichovetch, former joke of the gods, had the last laugh for a very long time.

 

 


End file.
